


The Babyraising Blog

by Quiet_Paranoiac



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, Gen, I repeat — it’s an AU — no Medusoid Mycelium or rotten utopias, but has nothing to do with what one might expect of season two, canonical terms (such as V.F.D.) are treated in a _very_ AU-ish way, only a few contradictions with the TV series for now, overwhelming love for social change included, some headcanons that might seem OOC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-28 05:16:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10824543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Paranoiac/pseuds/Quiet_Paranoiac
Summary: Dear Reader,I’m sorry to inform you that the fic you are looking at is outrageously untypical of the narratives about three unlucky Baudelaires. It proposes an Alternative Universe in which Violet, Klaus and Sunny finally receive a guardian who won’t be tricked by their long-time nemesis. Despite the awkward beginning and some pretty disturbing adventures in the middle, the brave siblings get a well-deserved happy ending.Within these chapters the Baudelaires will inevitably face such challenges as a digital library, a right to be forgotten, a discharged smartphone, broken brakes, a mayhem in the bank and a remarkably improved freeze ray.It is my greatest joy to tell the optimistic tale of three smart children and eager devotee of social change, but you may prefer to read some other story that will match the desperate atmosphere of both canons.With all due respect,Your Ficwriter





	1. Chapter One (which is also Part One of Act One)

The last couple of months were probably the most miserable in lives of Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire. It all began when the loving parents of these intelligent and charming children perished in a terrible fire and the atrocious villain named Count Olaf started chasing after the Baudelaires’ fortune. Since then, the poor siblings lost two guardians, each of whom was rather amiable in their own ways, took a trip across the carnivorous leeches’ lake on a stormy night, and worked in a sawmill where hypnotized employees received their wages in coupons. Though they survived through all these revolting events, the Baudelaires couldn’t keep confidence they would ever get a chance for better future.

So no one would have blamed them for the lack of enthusiasm they felt when Mr. Poe, a banker in charge of their affairs, announced he could only find one guardian who had accepted to take the Baudelaire orphans in after all the misfortunes happened to the previous volunteers.

“Volunteers?” Klaus repeated, realizing this word sounded strangely meaningful to him, although he couldn’t remember where had he heard it last time.

“Yes, that was his expression, I believe.”

“Who is he?” Violet asked.

“I’m not entirely sure... you see, children, I was never keen on science — except for statistics — and your new guardian did sound like a man of science. He also lives in our town, isn’t it nice?”

The children looked at each other. It might have been nice to finally stay in a familiar place, and it also meant they could address Justice Strauss, should they be in need of help; a solid advantage for those who haven’t received almost any aid so far. Yet the very air there was still filled with grief and ashes from the unfortunate fire, and the last and only guardian they had in their hometown was Count Olaf.

“Anyway, he was on the list in your parents’ will, so you shouldn’t worry about him. I’m sure you’ll like him when you’ll see him.”

Mr. Poe had never been a big guesser, but a mistake of such a scale was rare even for him.

“You!” Violet and Klaus exclaimed in unison when the door of a modest house had opened to reveal the owner.

“Ralbr!” Sunny screamed at the same moment, meaning, “Your disguise is always horrible, Count Olaf!”

There was some dramatic irony in her statement, although she couldn’t suspect it yet.

“You don’t even know me, but you dislike me already? Usually people take their time to start disliking me,” said the tall man standing in the doorway. “Billy’s the name.”

He held out his hand in a common welcoming gesture, and Violet unconsciously took a step back, pulling Sunny closer. She expected the tall man, who certainly looked like Count Olaf in some uncharacteristically prosaic disguise, to be irritated and angry; to her surprise, he seemed embarrassed and perplexed.

“You won’t fool us!” Klaus said as firmly as he could.

“I think I will, given a day or so to prepare my prank, but I certainly wouldn’t want to do this.”

“You may have hidden your hideous tattoo...”

“Joined after the schism, why should I have a tattoo—”

“Or shaved off a part of your eyebrow…”

“...wait, what?”

“Or even dyed your hair…”

“...hey, I’m a natural blond!”

“But anyone could see you’re Count Olaf!” Klaus concluded. “Well, anyone besides those who don’t listen to the obvious things,” he thought, noticing Mr. Poe’s reaction.

“There’s no need to be impolite, children!” Mr. Poe coughed and turned to the tall man. “I’m sorry, but this Count Olaf tried very hard to steal the Baudelaires’ enormous fortune, so the children are a little obsessed with the idea he’s following them.”

“We weren’t ‘impolite’, and Count Olaf _did_ always follow us before,” Klaus insisted, supported by Sunny’s shriek.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Mr. Poe mumbled again.

“No, it’s alright,” suddenly said the tall man; he didn’t even look at Mr. Poe and was evidently speaking to the Baudelaires. “I thought Jacquelyn sent you a note. Along with your spyglass. A ‘yes, Billy is our local meme’ kind of note?”

“Jacquelyn?” now Klaus was confused.

“What a coincidence, I have a secretary named Jacquelyn!” Mr. Poe smiled.

The tall man sighed.

“Mr. Poe, did you give the Baudelaires the package you had absolutely coincidentally received from South America a few days ago?”

Only now something clicked in Klaus’ head.

It was Mr. Poe’s secretary who called her work “a volunteer position”.

“I almost forgot about it, thank you! I have no idea how did you know about this package, which means I must have mentioned it in our previous conversation,” Mr. Poe replied sprightly. “This came to the bank for you, children,” he said, taking a small box from his pocket. The kraft paper was covered in postage stamps, and so far as Klaus — who read a book or two about philately — could tell, this package was really delivered from South America. “I also have no idea why the return address is from my secretary,” Mr. Poe added.

Violet barely held the chuckle when the tall man rolled his eyes, visibly impressed by Mr. Poe’s investigative skills. Something wasn’t right: Count Olaf they knew was the most frightening person on Earth, whether he was wearing his stage costume, a fake beard and glasses, or a red midi dress.

This man wasn’t scary at all.

Klaus gave him another distrustful glance and untied the rope.

“She said she’d get it back. She did,” Klaus whispered with a spark of hope in his voice. A device he got out of the box was truly a mysterious part of spyglass that Count Olaf had stolen from them. At least this one time luck was on their side.

“And look, there’s a message,” Violet said, taking a sticky note that was lying under the spyglass.

“Suwo!” Sunny cried, trying to make her siblings remember she didn’t know how to read yet.

“Of course we will read it, Sunny,” Violet answered. The pencil handwriting was small, but readable enough to cause no problem.

“Dear Baudelaires, do not be baffled by your new guardian’s appearance,” Klaus started. “However similar to Count Olaf he may look at first glance, you will find that Billy has nothing to do with your enemy. Your trust won’t be mistaken.”

The tall man nodded, swaying impatiently on his feet.

“If you suspect that Count Olaf has already replaced Billy, you can use the code ‘all that matters’, to which Billy should reply—”

“Taking matters into your own hands,” the tall man continued wearily, just like the note anticipated. 

The Baudelaires didn’t read the postscriptum out loud. They were well-mannered children, after all, and such embarrassing warnings as “don’t talk about horses too much, this theme makes Billy nervous” weren’t meant for public announcement, an expression which here means “a speech that Billy himself could hear”.

“Now can we please say goodbye to Mr. Poe and come indoors?” the tall man wondered.

“Yes,” said Mr. Poe, happy to get back on track, “I believe the introduction went amazingly well.” 

“Tuskev!” Sunny shrieked, agreeing, “It’s amazing it went well after all!”

“If you need anything, children, you can always reach me at Mulctuary Money Management. Although as a newly promoted Vice President of Orphan Affairs I won’t have time to check in on you. But if you really need me, my secretary will surely find the time for your appointment in my schedule. Good luck!” Mr. Poe said, stepping back.

“Goodbye, Mr. Poe”, Violet and Klaus drawled, as Mr. Poe walked to his car, muttering, “Jacquelyn, what a funny coincidence.”

The house was as modest inside as it looked outside, yet despite the interior that one could call slightly austere and a little chaos that would seem unbearable to a neat freak, this place looked homelike — a word the Baudelaires would hardly use in their descriptions of Lucky Smells Lumbermill or Aunt Josephine’s residence. This house wasn’t as colorful as Uncle Monty’s or as comfortable as their destroyed mansion, but Violet felt she could grow to like it, Klaus thought it looked rather suitable for a scientist, and Sunny supposed she’ll get something to bite within these walls.

“Let’s try another take, shall we?” the tall man said, closing the door and turning to the Baudelaires. “My name is Billy, and I believe I got your names right, so, Violet, Klaus, Sunny, welcome to your new home. I’m sorry I didn’t know your parents really well, and I understand my face is hardly pleasant for you right now, but I hope we can become friends.” 

“How do you do?” Violet said, sensing how strange it sounded after such an awkward introduction. Being a very polite girl, though, she comprehended that any question about the nature of the remarkable likeness would be even more ill-timed.

“Glad that the misunderstanding is finally over, to be honest,” Billy replied, winking. “I doubt they fed their workers well in that appalling sawmill, how about some dinner?”

It was the first decent meal the Baudelaires had after they’d secretly cooked some hot food in Aunt Josephine’s house, so they weren’t quite in the mood to evaluate Billy’s culinary talent. However, they got enough time to look around while sitting in the kitchen and were pleased to see oregano and paprika containers, along with some other of their favorite spices. The menaces of broken stove, cold soup and chewing gum seemed so far away that, despite their persistent wariness, the Baudelaires gave Billy sincere and quite warm thanks after they had finished their eating.

He instantly seemed cheered up, and Violet unexpectedly realized that he was probably just as perturbed by this new acquaintance as themselves.

“Let’s take a quick look around the house and leave everything more exhaustive for tomorrow, alright?” Billy said in a slightly too vivacious tone.

It soon became clear that there wasn’t actually much to look at. The guest room — similar to another one on the second floor, as Billy explained — though being tidy, wore an air of a long-standing yearning for any visitors. The bathroom, which also had a double upstairs, shined with its tiles of various shades of blue, but the most eye-catching item was an enormous washing machine.

“The laundries here are awful,” Billy said with a wry face, as if he felt the need to be apologetic. The Baudelaires couldn’t decide what to make of it, so they simply nodded; after all, they never had a possibility to give the local laundries a try.

“Here we have a storage room for the things that don’t fit anywhere else,” Billy continued, turning yet another knob, “like waste batteries waiting for recycling or an ugly vase someone brought as a birthday gift. The room is tiny, as you can see, because it’s usually easier to find objects in a specific place than in some mingle-mangle.”

He also showed them the armored door to the room at the back of the house. Unlike the one on the way to the Reptile Room, this door seemed simple, but solid enough to serve as a protection from anyone who would try to get in.

Or, Violet suddenly thought, anything that would try to get out.

“Here’s the laboratory, which I will show you tomorrow, because now it’s really late and you were supposed to be seeing dreams an hour ago already. I believe some devices may arouse your curiosity, Violet. And Sunny, I beg of you, don’t bite anything in there unless I say it’s absolutely safe.”

“Wokef!” Sunny responded.

“No, I don’t question the fact that you are an intelligent child who knows better than risking her life!” 

Violet and Klaus exchanged looks with each other: there were not many people who actually could understand Sunny’s talk, even if missing some nuances.

“I flatter myself I am an intelligent adult who knows better than risking his life,” Billy continued, “yet from time to time I do receive an electric shock, and I wouldn’t want similar things to happen to you.”

“Braur,” Sunny grunted.

“I’m glad we’re clear on that,” Billy said in a very serious tone.

A tour of the house was almost over, yet one very important part was still missing, and an embarrassing question started to burn in the Baudelaires’ minds.

“Sorry...” Klaus couldn’t even imagine how one asks such a thing politely, but he still intended to try. “Don’t you have any books?”

“Of course I do,” Billy seemed more surprised than offended, as if Klaus had just ignored a bookshelf right under his nose.

“So... can we read them?” Klaus tried once again.

“Anytime, anything you’d like to,” Billy replied readily. “Avoid Carnegie, though, if you don't want to be bored to death.”

“But where are they?”

“Mostly here,” Billy grabbed a bunch of flash drives from the table, “but I also keep some of them on my hard drives.”

“You have no paperbacks?” Violet asked, remembering the magnificent library in the mansion, the unique collection cherished by Justice Strauss, and the room full of light and books in Aunt Josephine’s house.

“Come on, are you really trying to tell me that reading with a flashlight under a blanket is better for eyes?” Billy chuckled.

“No, but—”

“Besides, it’s much easier to keep a decent library this way: no bookcases, no dust. Oh,” Billy suddenly looked truly worried, “oh, don’t tell me you never had an e-reader before.”

Violet and Klaus shrugged. Now Billy was terrified.

“Do you even know what epub is?!”

“Sort of,” Klaus replied. “It is a technical standard published by—”

“Alright, alright, I’ve no doubt you read the dictionary, thank you. I guess I should teach you children a few things about pirate parties and social change,” Billy said quite emotionally.

Klaus frowned. There was definitely no hope that Billy meant some kind of costume ball, and although Klaus never avoided a possibility to enlarge his erudition, he wasn’t sure this particular subject was quite safe.

When they went upstairs, Billy pointed at one of the doors.

“I heard you prefer to stick together, which is totally understandable, so your beds are in the same room, although I can’t imagine a teen who doesn’t want to have her or his own room, but as I’ve said, it’s alright, since—”

“Thank you,” Violet interrupted, assuming that Billy was simply too agitated to stop. “And thank you for accepting to be our guardian.”

“Yeah, well, who would leave kids alone in trouble…” Billy said, and then curtly shook his head, as though he remembered something. “And I know you tried to get some answers from your guardians for too long, so in case something will happen tonight — which is highly improbable, I must emphasize — I better tell you the basics.”

The Baudelaires looked at each other once again. They were excited, of course, being in search of truth for so long, yet somehow they surmised it wasn’t the best replacement for a more ordinary bedtime story.

“I, Jacquelyn, Josephine Anwhistle, Dr. Montgomery Montgomery and your parents had all at some point in our lives joined the organization called V.F.D., Volunteer Fire Department. The volunteers try to extinguish fires, both literally and figuratively. The problem is, at some point our organization — well, I myself wasn't a member then, but still — fell into schism, and the evil side started setting fires instead of fighting them. As you can guess, Count Olaf was one of their masterminds.”

Violet and Klaus did not know what to say.

“Oy vey,” Sunny expressed the general sentiment.

“We’ll discuss it further in the morning,” Billy added hastily, “and if you’ll need more information, you can always read a scan of _The Incomplete History of Secret Organizations_ , it’s on the red flash drive, in the ‘Fahrenheit 451’ folder. We’ll also discuss the importance of having a safe messenger on your smartphone, but now’s not the time. There’s a panic button near the closet in case of any danger, have nice dreams!”

The Baudelaires, stunned by Billy’s manner of talking about mysterious events and secret organizations as much as they were stunned by all this unexpected knowledge, didn’t move. Billy waited a short while, and then calmly asked:

“Is something wrong?”

“Everything,” Klaus answered in a flat voice. 

The worst thing was that all these phantasmagorias seemed logical in light of the Baudelaires’ tragic adventures.

Billy smiled, joylessly but still reassuring.

“You’re absolutely right about this world. To change it, though, you need to gain strength, and a good night sleep surely helps.”

Lying in their cozy beds that night, the Baudelaires were thinking that maybe their new guardian wasn’t as horrible as they had suspected, impressed by his extraordinary resemblance to Count Olaf.

Hardly could they imagine they were both right and wrong at the same time.


	2. Chapter Two (which is also Part Two of Act One)

“...and since Violet turned out to be a good singer, while Sunny makes great progress in melodic whistling, now our life resembles some Disney movie, but I like it very much. This was The Newly Appointed Guardian’s Babyraising Blog, see you soon!”

Billy turned off the webcam and leaned back. He wasn’t lying: he really liked the Baudelaires, and if he knew the first thing about children, he could be sure they sincerely liked him in return. With all the anecdotic situations, though, this last week reminded of his very first days in this town, when he couldn’t understand how do the locals live among such dissonances.

For instance, when he first opened the laboratory door to Violet, her reaction was far from what both his sides — the optimistic and the pessimistic ones — expected.

“This is… unusual,” Violet said, stumbling over words.

“ _This_ is unusual?” Billy looked around, wondering whether something drastically changed since he had last closed his lab. What exactly could seem strange to the girl who mentioned she had used pasta machine as an elevating tool? “Believe me, this is one of the most normal places in the neighborhood. As far as I know, you’ve lived around here all your life, so you may not notice, but this town is kind of weird.”

Violet tilted her head in question.

“You know what is the greatest problem?” Billy said. “An inexplicably selective attention to progress! I don’t even talk about social change, considering the local nuptial law; but they type with a typewriter in the bank, can you believe it? A typewriter in the bank, in this day and age!”

Violet smiled politely, but Billy could tell she wasn’t exactly convinced.

“You and I, we’re both inventors,” Billy calmed down a bit. “And I believe it’s the inventors who should change this attitude towards progress. Starting with V.F.D., where, unfortunately, the conservatives with their stylish but useless ideas still prevail.”

“We shall try,” Violet nodded with restraint, making Billy sigh. She was a broad-minded teen, but she didn’t feel yet how unsatisfying the status quo was. And if all the misfortunes that happened in her life in the last months couldn’t open her eyes, there was quite a big work to do for a lone guardian.

It was no better when Klaus suddenly doubted his capability to have his own e-mail just because some ridiculous user agreement told him that even the smartest of kids can’t finish the procedure until they reach the age of thirteen.

“I think I can wait for a few months,” he said.

He underestimated Billy’s determination.

“No, Klaus Baudelaire, you're going to obtain your first Android right now,” Billy insisted, snatching the mouse to choose an acceptable birth date.

“Android?” Klaus asked with suspicion. “Like in the Philip Kindred Dick’s novel?”

“This one too, maybe,” Billy replied perplexedly after a pause, “if your sister eventually takes interest in robots, but no, I meant an operating system used by half of the world. Another corporate tool, not really convenient, but I know some ways to make it effective.”

“I would prefer to avoid those from the novel,” Klaus said, “their society was unbearably scary.”

Billy looked at him with approval. Apparently, dystopias could be quite useful in educational process. Unless they made children fear the progress in general, that is.

And even Sunny, who wasn’t that much bound by social norms yet, held something against the food processor. This antipathy, though, was explainable, and Billy always valued the attention to standards highly.

On the bright side, their merry life still wasn’t overshadowed by Count Olaf’s intrusion. Billy wasn’t naive enough to expect this evildoer would abandon the intention of laying his hands on the Baudelaires’ fortune, yet his tardiness gave Billy time to prepare.

Unlike the previous guardians — whom Billy respected for being fierce and formidable, but wouldn’t recommend as a role model for those who seek to save three nice children from a cunning fortune hunter — Billy decided to use the waiting time in the most profitable manner. The shopping spree of new clothes to wear instead of those submerged to the Lake Lachrymose, as well as the filling of a notice for homeschooling, were only the first steps. Soon enough the Baudelaires had already learned all they should about V.F.D., Violet and Klaus began to understand why the Internet can be one’s best friend, and Sunny was developing her own set of signal whistles — not exactly the kind of code Billy would prefer (and he was trying to provide V.F.D. with a new system for months now), but anything was better than the usage of codes known to both sides of the schism.

Such an idyllic start allowed to expect their life to become better and better with time. And this was yet another peaceful afternoon full of exciting tasks and blessed with good weather.

Billy loved peace — and quite literally nowadays.

“Billy, could you help me, please?” Violet cried from the laboratory.

“I’ll go check the mail and then I’ll be back for you, alright?” he answered, justly considering that Violet’s calm tone meant the absence of urgency.

He left the front door open and walked to the mailbox. The amount of delivered post was a bit unusual, but Billy didn’t notice it at first, distracted by the label on the package.

“Violet, you won’t believe it,” he started, turning the knob, “but those light bulbs I told you about, they’ve—”

Standing in the hall, Billy suddenly realized what was he holding in his left hand, and nearly dropped the precious bulbs. Above all the other letters there was an envelope with an awfully glittery silver seal. 

Billy blinked reflexively, then, remembering that such action is supposed to help destroy illusions, blinked once more out of despair. To his dismay, the eye gymnastics didn’t change much.

“They have what?” Violet asked, appearing unexpectedly close with Sunny on her hands.

“They have already arrived,” Billy forced out a serene response, only to realize how false his voice had sounded. “See?” he hurried to give Violet the package in hope that the task of holding both Sunny and the bulbs will keep her occupied for a couple of minutes.

“That’s wonderful,” Violet said, readily taking the package; Sunny didn’t even look at it, but clearly payed some attention to the letters instead. “Now we can start that project we wanted!”

“Yes, definitely,” Billy calmed himself down once more. “Look, I need to run through some papers in my room, I promise it won’t take long.”

“Is everything alright?” Violet asked with concern.

“Absolutely!” Billy even tried to chuckle, but regretted it immediately: instead of sounding confident, his laugh resembled groaning. “Just some household affairs, nothing to worry about.”

As he went up the stairs, he heard Sunny saying “Gunah?”, which probably meant something like, “What is he hiding?”, and cringed — however much he admired the observation skills of the Baudelaires, right now he wasn’t glad to be the object of their watchfulness.

Having closed the door of his room, Billy sat on the edge of the bed and put the letters beside him. Than he took the one with the silver seal in his hands again, stroking the so easily recognizable horseshoe.

He hadn’t seen it in a very long time, and, to be honest, had already believed he won’t ever see it again. He much preferred it that way. Whatever awaited inside, this surprise couldn’t be a pleasant one — Bad Horse wasn’t famous for sending advertisements or holiday cards to the might-have-been members of the Evil League of Evil.

Billy took a deep breath.

_Our League cannot stand treason,_  
_it’s vengeance will be cruel._  
_So you should give us reason_  
_to forgive you, fool._  
_The orphans you made gleesome_  
_you must renounce; be cool._

_I won’t tell twice_  
_or show remorse._  
_Give up those bookworms!_  
_Signed, Bad Horse._

“What a shame, his poetical abilities have eroded,” Billy thought while his mind was trying to shield him from an enormous wave of panic. 

There was something funny about the letter, yet Billy couldn’t force himself to concentrate on this riddle. He barely had enough rationality to stop and think about the sender.

The worst-case scenario was based on the assumption that Bad Horse had found him at last and was really mad about what happened several years ago. After all, last time Billy heard his orders, Bad Horse promised to have blood spilled one way or another, precising “it might be yours”. Such rancor towards someone who didn’t even achieve the status of supervillain seemed strange, but Billy knew by experience the strangest things can be the most real. How did Bad Horse find him here, though, was another conundrum; Jacquelyn — well, V.F.D. in principle, but no one else had ever taken such interest in his story — was always positive Bad Horse won’t detect this town.

The best-case scenario relied on the small, but stubborn and twisted fanbase of the Evil League of Evil. Whilst Billy blocked the access to his original blog, trying to vanish from the League’s radar completely, he couldn’t stop the viewers from reuploading it without his permission. From time to time he even saw some comments about the wasted potential of such a promising applicant. Fan theories about his whereabouts were usually the most amusing part. If someone finally got it right — maybe he shouldn’t had started this new blog which made the search easier — that person could stage such a spoof out of pure impersonal malevolence, but wouldn’t it mean this house is no longer safe anyway?

The only thing Billy was quite sure about was his intention to be a good guardian, so the idea of abandoning the Baudelaires couldn’t even be considered. But with Peru compromised and so many places recently turned to ashes, the question of safety was critical, and without some help from V.F.D. he wouldn’t know where to move, not to mention his lack of desire to leave the town. 

Jacquelyn would at least tell him what should he be scared of. He always felt better when she was around. As ill luck would have it, she went on some mission again today — taking only that ridiculous walkie-talkie with her, despite all the usual “I know the smartphone might be useful” pledges — and it was hard to say when would she come back. 

Billy opened the closet and sighed. His suit was still here, gleamingly white thanks to some special additives to the washing powder, and even slightly dandy, in the evil-mad-scientist way, but actually quite uncomfortable. Just like V.F.D. with their traditions and mystique that could ruin even the best of intentions. Apparently, he had a weakness for such things.

He spent the entire evening on pins and needles, dropping spoons and being very close to plunging a fork into his leg one more time. Or into his chest. Particularly in the pocket where he kept the damn letter. The worried looks of the Baudelaires only made it worse, so Billy tried to escape to the laboratory, earnestly suggesting children some better things to do than watching one of these dull tests he wanted to run. Yet even Klaus, who spend less time in the laboratory than his sisters, followed Billy, equipped by dreary resolution and a fully loaded e-reader. It was past midnight when the Baudelaires finally gave up and walked away, bidding Billy good night.

He continued his work, relying on its usual calming influence, and only stopped when the third sample tube fractured in his hand, leaving a pale stain on what was supposed to be a stain-resistant glove. Billy wasn’t even surprised that the stain resembled the horseshoe: he always hated the Rorschach test.

Despite the obvious incapability to do anything effective until uneasiness breaks, he still couldn’t push himself to go to bed; so he sat at the desk, swinging his chair slightly. Gazing blankly at the letter, Billy tried once again to analyze the situation that looked stranger and stranger with every minute passed. If Bad Horse was truly the author of those threats, why was he so specific about the Baudelaires, not mentioning V.F.D. at all? If there was a pranker to thank for this bone-chilling forgery, why didn’t he propose something blatantly ridiculous, as most of them do?

“And where’s the evil glory in messing with the orphans?” Billy thought before his eyelids grew heavy.

The first thing he heard next morning was the crackling of paper over his ear. Then there was Violet’s soft voice.

“Billy, are you okay?”

“Perfectly well for someone who conked out over a desk in his own lab, thank you,” Billy mumbled, rubbing his eyes and striving not to yawn.

When his vision had finally brightened, he saw Violet, who looked deadly serious, and the letter she was still holding in her hands.

“Oh no,” was all he could mastered. He might have tried something like, “Nice kids aren’t supposed to read other people’s letters,” but this would be a kind of hypocrisy Billy couldn’t stand, despite his enormous respect for the secrecy of correspondence.

“Billy, what is it?” Violet asked, giving the letter back.

“A very bad sign,” he replied in all honesty. “At worst, also our tickets to wherever V.F.D. will find a safe harbor for us.” 

“Did you notice the error?” Violet knit her brows. “It says ‘it’s’, with an apostrophe, instead of ‘its’ that should be there. The same mistake Count Olaf made on his business cards when he tried to persuade everybody he was a sea captain.”

“Count Olaf?..” Billy repeated slowly, feeling like he was putting two and two together. He couldn’t imagine Count Olaf in front of a monitor before, but this hypothesis was more than solid. It even explained why the verses were eligible for the “fourth worst poetry in the Universe” title. “I’m an idiot!”

Violet looked at him suspiciously.

“You’re a genius!” Billy added, to give the conversation a bit more positive direction. It was actually shameful he didn’t think about the man who should have been his first suspect, no matter how unexpected Olaf’s move was. “Does he have a YouTube account, by the way? Just wondering.”

“Billy,” Violet said decisively, “I think you might want to tell us something else we really need to know.”

Ten minutes later Billy — still nervous and disheveled, but way more confident than he could hope to be the previous night — was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for a cup of cocoa that Klaus had just made for everyone except Sunny, who always preferred a full bowl of marshmallows to any hot drink. The cookies on the plate smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, the sun was shining in the window, warming the room. This wasn’t exactly how Billy pictured the dramatic presentment of Dr. Horrible’s unfortunate story; then again, his top choice would be no presentment at all.

And the Baudelaires deserved to know who they were living with.


	3. Chapter Three (which is also Part Three of Act One)

There is no person in the world who doesn’t wish to make everyone forget about some episodes in his or her past. You probably recognize some of such embarrassing moments: a clumsy accident, a stupid answer instead of a right one you actually knew, a very slow reaction in a critical situation. In our troubled age of unprecedented recording, the furious debates unfold sometimes, questioning whether the law should help people to cover the tracks of their ancient affairs or allow the fixation of all the events for good, despite the consequences of negative presupposing and non-restorable reputations.

The Baudelaires had never participated in such a debate, but they comprehended perfectly well how one feels about the black patches on one’s past. Violet genuinely admitted that the idea of using the mansion walls for schematic drawing wasn’t as brilliant as she had thought when she had first got an erasable pen. Klaus always grew gloomy when he recalled how he tore the book pages in pieces as a toddler, because he liked the sound of paper being pulled apart. Sunny, whose list of incidents she would gladly bury in oblivion was short yet — due to her considerably young age — most regretted she had bit the doorknob of the nursery when her parents first brought her home.

Yet all these shameful deeds evidently paled in comparison with the tentatives to join the Evil League of Evil.

“I wanted to do great things,” Billy said, twirling the mug of cocoa in his hands. “I knew I could be so much more than some errand boy from the Henchmen Union.”

The Baudelaires, who still remembered Count Olaf’s associates very well, wholeheartedly agreed with that. The previous part, though, seemed more controversial to them: not many people would call the path of supervillain the easiest way to do great things. And even if the Baudelaires could throw away their own moral attitudes, imagining Billy — one of the kindest persons they knew — as Dr. Horrible was not an effortless task.

“I’ve got a Ph.D. in horribleness!” Billy exclaimed desperately, noticing their doubt.

“Sevnip?” Sunny’s shriek was filled with scepticism.

“I’ll tell you when you will be old enough to choose your college, okay?” Billy answered with a sad smile.

“Vorna,” Sunny complied, taking the next marshmallow.

“But why the Evil League of Evil?” Klaus asked. This was a dubious question, a multiplied “why” designating so many things Klaus actually wanted to know: why does one associate the great deeds with evil, why couldn’t a fame-seeking malefactor work alone, and why had his usually rational guardian chosen an organization headed by a horse.

“I couldn’t be happy with all these… moderate initiatives,” Billy said. “Collecting signatures isn’t much more useful than catching the wind in a net. This world is such a mess, and I thought I could rule it as a supervillain,” his voice suddenly grew stronger, reflecting his ever-burning commitment to social change. “Make it better, you know. Do my worst for the greater good.”

Klaus almost cited some historical examples of such a behaviour that led to catastrophe, but then he realized Billy probably knew them. And most likely thought he wouldn’t repeat those mistakes.

It is a common misapprehension that learning history necessarily leads to avoidance of familiar failures. In fact, one must always in keep in mind that identical assertion, as history tells us, often came from those who repeated the most obvious missteps — if we can even speak about any similarity in our ever-changing universe of unique unfortunate events.

“The Evil League of Evil seemed powerful enough to turn the world right-side up,” Billy continued. “They were famous for their schemes and standards, not for some petty crimes. I supposed once I’d be in the League, I would have a chance to make them see the future my way. Or,” he specified, stammering a bit, “at least make them don’t get in my way, that was a more realistic plan B. Anyhow, it would be dangerous to underestimate the power of reputation.”

The Baudelaires couldn’t argue with this statement: so far many adults hadn’t listened to them only because they were children and in view of their minority weren’t considered smart enough to recognize a sinister intention or a thespian with a borrowed lipstick.

“I hadn’t got such a great start, ‘cause I always hurried too much with my inventions and plans,” Billy said, looking abashed, “and I received a constant pain in the neck as a nemesis — that clown considered himself a local superhero, and all he had was biological invulnerability combined with absence of conscience.”

The wry grimace on his face shocked the Baudelaires: they had already seen Billy annoyed and disapproving, yet never so embittered. 

“My neck still hurts sometimes. Not that I had any alternative choice,” he sneered, “this guy scared away every decent hero who still lived in the area. And frightening kids in the park was never my kind of thing, so I avoided low-class neophytes.”

“You had a nemesis — and no allies?” Klaus wondered.

“I had some buddies with whom I could talk about routine or evil plans,” Billy replied, winding down from irritated disgust to pensive sadness, “but if you mean someone who would be interested in social change as much as I was — no such luxury. Even the blog didn’t help much, most e-mails the viewers sent were silly, when I hoped my vids would be a tool of enlightenment.”

“The blog? Like the one you have now?” Violet asked.

“More or less,” Billy said. “I guess you understand the difference between a would-be supervillain and a respectable guardian, but other than that you can call my present project an equivalent of my old habit.”

“Berwe!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of, “So you think Count Olaf found that blog?”

“That would be the most logical explanation,” Billy responded. “You see, my break with the Evil League of Evil wasn’t based on mutual consent. I started to lose hope when my application finally got in. I needed to pull an impressive crime to join the League, and my freeze ray was almost ready. I even managed to obtain the Wonderflonium I needed,” he blinked, “apart from one particular consequence and some blows from the same nemesis, that heist was quite successful.”

Noticing the change in Billy’s face, the Baudelaires realized they probably shouldn’t ask what outcome Billy would consider unsuccessful.

“And then some things went wrong again, thanks to that parody of action man. My freeze ray needed a few seconds to warm up, I wasn’t ready for a police response, but apparently it was ready for me…” Billy made a helpless gesture. “After such a fiasco Bad Horse told me I only had one chance to clear myself in the eyes of the League: I had to kill somebody. Naturally, I was indignant, although I wasn’t foolish enough to risk my life discussing it with Bad Horse.”

“Naturally?” Klaus repeated confusedly.

“I never thought killing is a suitable activity for a real villain,” Billy explained.

“Webst!” Sunny cried, meaning something like, “Would somebody please give Billy a dictionary?”

“I heard you!” Billy replied with an ironic smile. “But honestly, killing is not creative, it has nothing to do with being a deadly awesome supervillain.”

“I think you had found out that many villains disagree with you on that,” Violet said.

“Yes, that was the problem,” Billy admitted. “I didn’t know what to do: with such a price my dream seemed already deformed. And then one day someone told me... something.”

This wasn’t exactly the scale of detailing the Baudelaires preferred. But they were empathic children, able to discern frustration, so Violet nodded politely, and even Sunny contained her asking shriek.

“Something about volunteering,” Billy tried once more, “and also about one very unpleasant potential visitor. I went home, I thought about it all really well, and then one night I put my things in the car and left the town.”

“Hawor!” Sunny couldn’t help herself but scream. What she meant was, “You ran away from Bad Horse?”

“It’s not like you can simply countermand your application to the Evil League of Evil,” Billy answered. “I wanted to meditate on my prospects for a while, to find some place where the world would be quiet. I covered up my tracks, of course, and I doubt anyone had even suspected I was gone before I made my blog private. By then I was far enough from L.A., and I didn’t intend to stop.”

“So you could go wherever you wanted to, and you chose this town?” Klaus said incredulously. Like most people who spend their childhood in an enormous mansion with tender parents, he loved his home; but being a reader, he could think of so many exciting places he would like to see with his own eyes, as well as of so many serene ports to find peace in — despite some paranoid sentiments he got after the Lake Lachrymose — that he didn’t understand why had Billy preferred their dirty and busy city.

“I didn’t exactly choose it. I sort of drove into it and couldn’t get away,” Billy specified.

“What do you mean?” Violet asked.

“I told you this area is weird. If I’m still so disturbed by it, imagine how I felt when I first came into town,” Billy said.

The Baudelaires often had different approaches to expressive comparisons, but this one time they all thought that Billy’s first impression might had some similitude with their emotions towards V.F.D.

“I was baffled, but intrigued,” he paused and blinked, as if he was hesitating what to say next. “So I decided to stay in this town for a while, to observe a bit more. I tried not to attract attention, but V.F.D. somehow knew about me. Much more than I could expect.”

“So they recruited you, and you settled in,” Klaus grasped. Billy smiled wanly.

“I was walking on the beach — can’t remember what got into my head, it was a cold winter day; I probably liked the idea of having the beach for myself…”

The children nodded in total understanding.

“And suddenly she came up to me. I mean, Jacquelyn. She knew my name, both my names, and it’s a little rude to stay silent when someone calls your name,” Billy said, and then quickly added, noticing the Baudelaires’ disagreement, induced by their experience, “unless you are already hiding, of course.”

As a matter of fact, many situations suppose one should better withdraw from responding to one’s name. For instance, it’s not very clever for a girl to answer to her name if she’s in disguise of her brother who was killed by her fiancé or a cruel storm. It is perfectly logical to ignore the call of your parents’ friends if your family doesn’t show any fantasy in naming and produces generations of namesakes. If you were unlucky enough to be born a royal, you might also have some confusion about the quantity of your names: it is quite hard to react to each position of your country’s top ten list.

Billy’s opinion, though, was just in principle — when someone calls your name on a deserted seashore, etiquette binds you to answer and curiosity makes you follow the etiquette.

“But weren’t you hiding? From those who knew your... other name,” Klaus asked.

“I had never spoken with Jacquelyn before, so I needed to find out how she knew me,” Billy replied. “And run away, if something would seem wrong.”

“You said everything in this town seemed wrong at first sight,” Violet remarked.

“Rest assured, the V.F.D. did too,” Billy chuckled. “It still does sometimes. Yet they were right about one thing: I was ready to volunteer. I still thought the world was filled with filth and lies, but I wanted to try another road to change. And V.F.D. was somehow sure that Bad Horse wouldn’t trouble me here.”

Klaus was perplexed.

“But _The Incomplete History of Secret Organizations_ says they usually recruit children.”

“That’s true, and that’s one of so many V.F.D. practices I consider highly objectionable,” Billy replied. “I wasn’t their type in many aspects, though. I guessed they must had been desperate for someone with my skills and just couldn’t find a replacement. That was partly true, of course,” he sniffed, “but Jacquelyn also told me it would be strange not to take in... how did she put it... ‘the pacifist revolutionary who mistook himself for a villain’, when V.F.D. itself had so many deeds to repent for.”

“Weren’t they,” Violet stumbled, trying to find the most harmless words, “weren’t they surprised by your facial likeness with Count Olaf?”

“Some glances made me uncomfortable at first, but you know very well that many volunteers aren’t capable of recognizing Count Olaf in disguise,” Billy shrugged. “As you can see, I’m not exactly his copycat, so our similarity was only slightly noticeable for them. The real source of my problems with most volunteers was — is! — my rush for reforms.”

“Pifew!” Sunny shrieked, which meant, “It’s unbelievable Count Olaf didn’t try to use it to undermine V.F.D.!”

“I’m not certain he even knew about me before,” Billy said. “I never wanted to be what you would call a V.F.D. fieldworker. So I usually stayed in my lab and didn’t face this,” he waved the letter, “kind of urgencies. I presumed one shouldn’t be left alone in such matters, and you just proved my theory right.”

“What about Jacquelyn? Isn’t she on our side?” Klaus asked, remembering the spyglass.

“She is. She’s basically the only person in this town you can always trust to be on our side,” Billy said, and then added after a pause, “Apart from that judge you know, maybe, although I still wouldn’t trust a lawyer who can’t tell an official document from a stage prop. And it’s not like Jacquelyn goes to Peru every now and then, but she can be out of reach for days sometimes. Like now,” Billy drawled in a dreary tone, staring vaguely into space.

“So what are you going to do about this message?” Violet said gently; she didn’t want to strengthen Billy’s unease, and therefore refrained from all the compelling questions about their supposed ally.

“Firstly,” Billy instantly came to himself, “since our enemy is watching, I will be more careful about what I say on my blog. Last time I didn’t reckon with it, I’ve got a car thrown at my head, and I’m not eager for an encore. Secondly, I think I’ll go and record the response to our epistolary fellow: something about the importance of ignoring the bullies. Do you want to join me?”

“You’re not afraid of him?” Klaus asked; he was almost hearing their jolly peaceful life bursting into fragments once again. 

“I am. Only a fool wouldn’t be,” Billy admitted. “But he doesn’t need to know this.”

“Fowur,” Sunny said gravely, meaning something along the lines of, “He might have already guessed.”

“Now that’s what V.F.D. calls optimism!” Billy replied.

Sunny was still frowning, squeezing a marshmallow in her hand.

“Come on, there’s no use in running from him,” Billy insisted, “you told me yourself — he always finds you. I don’t want you to have this paranoid voice in your head that will haunt you wherever we’ll go; you’ve just seen what it did to me. Our only chance is to capture him for good.”

The Baudelaires smiled faintly, struggling with anxiety. Billy’s argument was reasonable, but the realization of inevitability is rarely a balm for the wound of peril.

“You’re not on your own in this anymore, I promise. That’s what volunteering should exist for,” Billy said sincerely.

Being intelligent and very unlucky children, the Baudelaires understood that well-meant efforts bring unexpected outcomes all too often; yet somehow Billy’s concern was convincing enough to hearten them a bit.

“Are you sure you don’t want to say hello to your nemesis?” he asked once more. “Imagine how frenzied he will be!”

But the Baudelaires still declined his offer in the most polite manner.

They knew Count Olaf would be enraged either way, and were frightened in advance of his evil schemes to come next, but their most ardent wish was to limit the presence of Count Olaf in their lives as much as they could.

“Well then, I won’t be long,” Billy smiled, getting up from the table. “And just so you know…” he added, blinking like he always did when he was nervous, “I’m really grateful to you. It’s rare to meet people who make you feel this world isn’t doomed to be a mess after all.”

The Baudelaires watched in silence how Billy, encouraged and animated, left the room to make a new video for his blog.

“Dwoli,” Sunny said with unusual pensiveness, trying to express her career choice, “If that’s how the supervillains look like, I want to be one when I grow up.”

“Did you notice how he talked about Jacquelyn?” Violet asked.

Klaus nodded.

“The same way Father talked about Mother…”

“Kogef!” Sunny added, and her siblings knew exactly was she meant.

“When he was in great need of her help and she couldn’t be around.”


	4. Chapter Four (which is also Part Four of Act One)

“...so if anyone tries to set you at variance with your wards, remember that the success or failure of such vile filthy design depends on your integrity.”

Count Olaf growled, clenching his beverage. The only thing that saved the tumbler from being crushed by Olaf’s grip and his hands from being painfully wounded was the material the tumbler was made of.

Maybe the metal tableware wasn’t such a bad idea after all, despite the demur of his refined taste.

“This was The Newly Appointed Guardian’s Babyraising Blog,” the fool on the screen finished nonchalantly, as if he wasn’t the one who had received the threatening letter. “Peace to all except the bullies!”

Count Olaf felt offended. This cad didn’t even bother to properly address him!

“Oh, you’ve already seen it,” the familiar voice — the one belonging to the associate whose gender Olaf preferred not to assume, avoiding another lecture on such senseless concepts as human rights and social progress — said from the hatch. “And I’ve just thought you might want to look at some fresh gifs on Tumblr, they are so—”

“Get out with your stupid gifs and your wacky tumbler!” Olaf burst out, hurling the tumbler in the direction of the sound.

“There cannot be greater rudeness than to interrupt another in the current of his discourse,” the voice muttered reproachfully, as the henchperson went downstairs, closing the hatch with a disapproving rumble. Olaf sighed heavily.

It all began with those damn gifs. When one of the troupe reported he had overheard that the banker wanted to take children back to their home town, to some new guardian, Olaf didn’t waste time. Under cloud of night, so that no overneighborly judge could see them, did he lead his faithful henchmen to his dear sweet home (alas, the keys he left underneath the doormat were stolen, probably by the scoundrels who dared call themselves the local police, so the grand entrance through the back door was slowed down a little, enriched by an intermedia “the hook who thought he was the lock-pick”). Next day he received his morning coffee, served by the white-faced women, with an exemplar of _The Daily Punctilio_ taken from a vendor who got too many of them for one person. 

On the pages of this issue Olaf found exactly what he expected: the insufferably slanderous description of what happened in the Lucky Smells Lumbermill (for a couple of minutes he even thought it would be nice to send to the editor an obituary of a stunningly insidious optometrist, who had met such an untimely death; but then he remembered he had better things to do) and some information about the Baudelaires’ new guardian. The article called him Benjy thrice, Billy twice and Barney once, so it was hard to identify which name was right.

Despite this riddle, _The Daily Punctilio_ managed to provide its readers with a more or less correct street name, and that wasn’t a bad point to begin an investigation. For starters, Olaf wanted to detect which house was the one belonging to the Baudelaires’ new guardian, and orderly rows of bushes in this part of the city surely could help.

The preparations — instructing the slow-witted associates, which took an insufferably long quarter of hour, choosing the most unremarkable costumes, which took another three hours — did not allow Count Olaf’s troupe to occupy their positions under the shelter of plants until the late afternoon; and even then they had to wait, observing dozens of unimportant passersby. Olaf had almost fallen asleep before he finally saw the odious trio he knew so well, escorted by some blond weakling. The man was laden with bags from clothing stores in a movie-like manner, and the Baudelaire orphans looked unbearably content.

“I know him,” suddenly said the henchperson of indeterminate gender, who was sitting in the adjacent bush.

“Don’t tell me you dated him,” Count Olaf replied floutingly.

“I’ve seen him on Tumblr today. Someone made gifs,” the henchperson explained. “I mean, he’s a vlogger. A newcomer, if I recall correctly. Talks about aspects of being a guardian in a really cute style.”

“So I could have been enjoying the comfort of my home all this time, instead of spying on someone whose pictures are all over the web?” Olaf wondered in a delusively gentle tone.

“He never said he was the guardian of the Baudelaires,” the henchperson of indeterminate gender replied calmly. “I think. There are a lot of babies named Sunny.”

Olaf snarled, watching how the weakling tried to find his keys and not to drop any bag in the process.

“He looks a bit like you, boss,” the henchperson continued in the same impassive manner.

“How dare you compare a moggy with a lion!” Olaf yelled, scandalized enough to defy the first rule of a good stakeout: being quiet. Luckily for him, the Baudelaire brats and their custodian were already inside the house.

“Because they’re both cats?” the henchperson said pensively.

Sometimes Olaf thought he should properly explain to his troupe the concept of metaphors.

The whole situation was strange, though. No sign permitted to hope that V.F.D. had withdrawn its protection from the Baudelaires, so this pathetical man must have been another volunteer. Olaf always thought he knew every member of this organization, dead or alive, yet he could swear on his genius for acting that he had never seen the Baudelaires’ new guardian before. And Olaf was pretty sure he would not have forgotten a face which — that much he was ready to admit — was a dull, uncharismatic and probably younger version of his own. With a nose that looked like a victim of plastic surgery. With a ridiculously kind expression. In other words, a face that was practically an insult to Count Olaf by its very existence.

So when he returned to his house that evening, he decided to take a closer look at those Tumblr posts, hoping to reveal the sore spots of his distorting mirror. Count Olaf might not have been the most advanced user, yet he was proud of his ability to make useless purchases online. His current laptop was once a prize in a contest of essays about artists’ self-identification problems. Not that he wrote one, of course, the henchperson of indeterminate gender did this — Olaf just took what was won, telling it’s only fair to share the benefits with scientific supervisor.

The system of replies was such a mess, aggravated by endless sentimental nonsense about that Billy guy, that Olaf all but accepted he couldn’t discover anything important here without help. Furiously clicking the mouse, he tried to go a few pages back in his search, but then his hand slipped, and suddenly he saw a comment he didn’t notice before.

The user — whose nickname Olaf forgot as soon as he had realized that person didn’t really know much — was asking whether this face seemed familiar to anyone else. Olaf even expected the author to mention this new blogger looked like one of the greatest actors in the world, ready to endure such a mistake with noble forbearance; yet all he found was a comparison with some “Dr. Horrible”, who seemed to be an admirer of mad scientists and low-budget steampunk.

The comparison, though, was quite appropriate, as the only horribleness of this other image consisted in the same softhearted look and questionable style choices. Olaf rubbed his hands, smelling the compromising material: whatever had put the Baudelaires’ guardian in a lab coat, “Dr. Horrible” wasn’t a kind of code name the volunteer firefighters would have given their new comrade. 

A dozen of pages and several cups of brandy-laced coffee later Olaf finally got hold of the full version of Dr. Horrible’s vlog. “Another stupid spod with a fancy degree,” he snorted, realizing the alias wasn’t just an example of wishful thinking. 

The blog made him laugh so loud that the flurried troupe came running to his almost-secret tower room, just in time to hear his comment about Bad Horse’s message that seemed to be the last chapter of the blog. 

“Now that’s what happens when you’re a part of an organization!”

“Is this the Baudelaires’ guardian, boss?” the bald man asked, while other associates tried to station themselves so that everyone could see the screen.

“He certainly is,” Olaf snickered. “The most pathetic villain I’ve ever known. No wonder he switched sides and tried to hide this record.”

“If he wants his past to be forgotten,” the henchperson of indeterminate gender started, “doesn’t he have a right to—”

“Shut up,” Olaf said, replaying the blog from the very beginning.

Somewhere in the middle he understood that his troupe, once again, was impressed not exactly in a way he expected them to be.

“He is so…”

“...cute, just like—"”

Olaf looked at the white-faced woman with suspicion, and they were instantly overwhelmed with embarrassment.

“Like a ridiculous blind kitten?” one of them mumbled uncertainly.

“Is there more about ‘her’? Such a moving storyline, I wonder if they will be together in the end!” the man with the hook-hands said, full of emotions. 

“It’s not a TV show!” Olaf rumbled. 

“Of course not, it’s a web series,” the henchperson of indeterminate gender remarked stolidly.

“It’s a blog about his past, remember?! Not some cartoon about a baddie nerd becoming a new hero!” Olaf growled.

V.F.D. had always been fools, but the smart and researchful type of fools, so they probably knew about the blog, which meant there was no sense in denouncing Dr. Horrible before his new peers. The Evil League of Evil, on the other hand, seemed to had lost his trace completely. Maybe they simply were uninterested — yet Billy’s terrified face at the end of the blog gave Olaf a splendid idea of menace.

He spent days polishing rhymes, so that the final version of Bad Horse’s forged letter would be perfect. Not for Dr. Horrible’s sake — Olaf was sure a horseshoe without any words would be chilling enough for this weakling — but for the glory of art itself. A great playwright does not renounce his principles only because the subject is trifling.

And not only did this ignoramus somehow get off the blackmail hook — he also disparaged the splendor of hard-written verses! Must have been another tasteless individual from the movement that preferred “show off” to “rice pilaf”.

Coming up from the hall under the hatch, the agitated voices impeded Olaf’s concentration on enthusiastic suffering, and the tumbler he had thrown away contained the last drops of wine in this room; so Olaf reluctantly went downstairs, right to his associates who grew more and more quiet with every step he was taking.

“He wasn’t sophisticated enough to understand you, boss,” the man with the hook-hands said timidly.

“He wasn’t capable of recognizing the good poetry!”

“He wasn’t receptive of real beauty!“ the white-faced women agreed.

“Of course he wasn’t,” Olaf said. The statements were obvious, yet it was nice to hear all these truths from somebody else.

“You shouldn’t waste your time on talentless dropouts,” the bald man uttered. “Surely they would be happy to have you in the Evil League of Evil!”

All the tenderness Olaf was starting to feel towards his ever-supportive troupe was swept away in a second, leaving them to be the usual hanger-ons of his dramatic greatness. 

“If any of you wants to join any ridiculous league, union or guild — exit stage right, and don’t expect me to take you in when you will crawl back on your knees, regretting you had exchanged the brightest star in the theatrical sky for a salary packaging!”

The troupe gasped, terrified by this picture.

“Does a fan group count?” the man with the hook-hands asked tremulously.

“No, it doesn’t,” Olaf answered, “especially if you meant my fan club. I do have a fan club. Do I?”

Five pair of eyes stared at him in helpless fear, and Olaf’s indignation began to grow again. 

“You,” he commanded, with no care whom exactly was he giving the order, “go and start a blog in my honor on this Tumblr. You — post some twigs!”

“It’s ‘tweets’,” the henchperson of indeterminate gender remarked quietly.

“Whatever requires to transmit my magnificence in one hundred and forty characters,” Olaf waved aside the detailing.

“You could actually post a screenshot of a longer—”

“And somebody take care of that Visagetome community or however it’s called,” Olaf continued. “And no check-ins! I’m not in the mood for guests. If someone’s asking, Count Olaf is on tour. Unless it’s some orphans with an enormous fortune,” he specified hopelessly, “in which case you can tie them up and lock them in the tower room before disturbing me. And no poker!” he snapped out, looking directly at his trembling associate with the hook-hands.

"You're going to meditate…”

“...on the next splendid evil scheme?” the white-faced women asked with a proper adoration. 

“The mind of a genius thinks up things for everyone and teaches everyone,” Olaf said loftily. 

The awkward silence was the only response. 

“I always do,” he explained wearily. “Now go do something useful, I’ll return to you later.”

He took a glass and a bottle of Merlot from the buffet and trudged to the library that turned out to be not a bad place for leisure after the Baudelaire brats did the general cleaning. There he lifted his legs on the armrest of the couch and considered the situation again, looking for inspiration in aforementioned Merlot. Soon the vague contours of a cunning plot appeared in his mind.

If this Billy guy wanted attention so bad that he had not hesitated to start a new blog, Olaf was ready to give him attention. So much attention he would crave for salutary silence. So much attention no one in this town would let Dr. Horrible live quietly.

Suddenly Olaf’s mouth lengthened in a grin that could have frightened the most courageous volunteers, and he clinked his glass with the bottle.

There was at least one person who would hunt Dr. Horrible down with as much enthusiasm as Olaf’s plan required.

Lately he had promised himself that Count Olaf won’t ever take a new partner again. But this delightful evil scheme wasn’t about finding a partner.

What he needed was a tool.

A hammer, to be precise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous thanks to evergreen_fields for sharing my dubious inclinations in a fandom gone gloriously alternative and for being alpha, beta and all the other letters reader of this fic.  
> Enormous thanks to everyone who managed to read the whole first act ;) Stay tuned, one day we'll be back with act two, and I promise this time Jacquelyn will play a more active role.


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